shared space and light

A letter from former Artistic Director, Dominic Dromgoole

A letter to the next Artistic Director.

Dear Fearless, and Fortunate soul,

Twenty years ago, Mark Rylance and Lennie James led a company in a modern dress production of Two Gentlemen of Verona, the first production in the new Globe.  Much scholarship went into the show, and twice as much free-wheeling invention. Happily, exhilaratingly, no-one knew entirely what they were doing, and they and the audience joined to discover a new language for making theatre. An adventure was launched, which led to twenty continuous years of chance-taking, boldness and surprise. Six people in pyjamas doing Cymbeline; scrupulous Original Practice work; throwing a roof on the building for Titus Andronicus; building rose gardens in the yard for Merry Wives; and yes, phantasmagorias of light and sound for last year’s Dream; and brute urbanising for Imogen. Shakespeare done with freedom and a curiosity to match the audience’s. 

That is the Globe tradition. It was new, and it is still new. A newness that begins again every afternoon and every evening when the audience come in and draw their breath at the sun, the wood, the colour, the swirl of it all, and each other. Newness is not easy for everyone. The bile towards the Globe was there at the beginning, was felt keenly by Mark, was ever-present in my time, and spilled out last autumn hideously from those both pro- and anti-Emma Rice. It goes with the territory. The Globe is forever breaking moulds, that inspires fear, and fear can lead to loathing. The rush of energy that accompanies the new, and the roar of approval from those happy to climb on board is more than ample compensation. Dear Fearless and Fortunate Soul, above all else keep the Globe new.

From the very start, the Globe pushed the boundaries on BAME casting, an action which we continued in my time with the natural joy of walking into a brighter room. Emma has carried that torch. Globe gender-bending began with Shakespeare, and Mark extended it with Vanessa Redgrave as Prospero, and with three all-female companies, including Phyllida Lloyd’s first Shakespeare with a female company, a seedling which grew into a spectacular tree. We carried this on, and were proud to transfer two successful plays by women writers to the West End in my last year. Emma extended this experiment much further, and she was right to. Carry on pushing these envelopes.

Mark experimented with new plays, a risk that grew fast as we presented countless big new public works. New writing beside a Shakespeare is a constant reminder that Shakespeare himself was once new, and the energy of the former electrifies the latter. Emma has carried that on, and, for me, it should remain at the heart of the Globe.

The Globe’s youth creates endless opportunities. It fits no particular mould – neither subsidised nor truly commercial – so is still free to invent itself. Over the last twenty years, it has freestyled different ways of playing Shakespeare; created a small-scale touring network, both national and international; built a new theatre, the Sam Wanamaker Playhouse; held a huge International Festival, and created a filming programme and a VOD platform. Contrary to some bizarre lies which have been circulating, all done within its unsubsidised means. Emma came in with a host of new directions, of new ways to facilitate artists, and with a large-scale intervention into how shows are staged.

The fact that Emma has been stopped in fulfilling her ambitions is heart-breaking. It is also wrong. The spirit of a theatre is that it should follow the lead of its artistic director. And an artistic director cannot usefully be anyone but themselves. The fact of your contract is also that, unless otherwise specified, you are free to invent as you wish. The only people who have the moral strength to get rid of you are the audience. No-one else, not the board, not your supposed colleagues, not the vulture punditry, just the audience. Emma had lost a little of the Globe audience, but all the evidence is that she had gained some as well. Please remember, F, and F Soul, that your first responsibility is to yourself, and to them.

At the heart of the Globe are, for me, two things. First the £5 ticket for the yard. Over the last twenty years that single fact has given over five million people an extraordinary experience for less than a sandwich costs. They have seen Mark in his pomp, Gemma Arterton’s Rosaline, Gugu Mbatha Raw’s Nell Gwynn, Roger Allam’s Falstaff, Eve Best’s Beatrice and Cleopatra, and countless others for only £5. It is a miracle. For all the talk of accessibility elsewhere, there is nothing equivalent to touch it. It makes many uneasy, many who espouse accessibility write with a shameful snobbery about tourists and students as if they were a sub-human species. There was also a steady pressure internally to raise that price, a pressure which Mark and I and Emma resisted. The £5 ticket is at the heart of the Globe’s success, you must fight for its survival.

The second thing at the heart of the Globe, for me, is playing in a shared light. A democratic space where a story unfolds as an imaginative agreement between text, actors and audience. It is this that Emma experimented to change, and which is at the heart of her disagreements with colleagues and the board. For me, shared light was the unique Globe tool, which subverted the orthodoxies of director’s and critic’s theatre, and which handed back to the actors and the audiences the capacity to collaborate together freely on making an imaginative experience occur. Taking away that uniqueness doesn’t strike me as radical, it strikes me as conformist. Every theatre has light and sound, the Globe didn’t. This uniqueness matters to me, and for me, F and F Soul, it is important to preserve.

However Emma didn’t come in to emulate myself, or Mark, she came in to be herself, and so she triumphantly was. As an Artistic Director myself, I respect Emma’s choice in doing so, and I cannot respect the blocking of her choice. No-one, not committees, not cabals, not connivers, no-one can set this policy but the AD. They have to make these choices with passion and conviction for the whole of the rest of a theatre to make sense.  Early on in your time, you will find it invaluable to listen to the many experienced voices around you, and also invaluable to be exceptionally wary of those who do not want to advise but who want to influence. Everybody wants to be Artistic Director. They can’t all be. Only you can. It is vital, Dear F and F S, that you ring-fence with iron and steel your own freedom and ability to make choices. This must be put down in black and white, and made public, and it must be adhered to. With an ear to what the audience wants, and with an eye for where to take them, no-one should set artistic policy but the Artistic Director.

Now that Emma has carried out her experiments with light and sound, it is pointless to pretend she hasn’t. What has happened, can’t unhappen. Many felt alienated by it, many loved it. To write it out of the Globe story and say it can’t happen ever again is fundamentalist, and as daft as any form of fundamentalism. Emma’s experiment should be folded into the Globe’s story as gleefully as all the other experiments have been; new work, internationalism, modernising, design interventions. For me, the majority of the work should be in a shared light, and with natural sound, but to make it that and that only, just doesn’t add up. Dear F and F Soul, fight to keep room for manoeuvre.

You will notice, Dear F and F Soul, that some of my comments have alluded to negative energy. It would be foolish to pretend it isn’t there. The Globe has its enemies without - many don’t like the freedom of the place, its open-ness and its warmth. Some simply can’t cope with its happiness. Our culture and its commentators often prefer the shrivelled sausage to the plump one, and the Globe is fat and juicy. The degree of bile can be disabling. I have just had my own and my family’s Easter wrecked by some pathological viciousness, and I’ve been gone a year. Emma has had to put up with much worse.

Sadly the negativity doesn’t only come from without, there is also a fair sum within. There are structural problems, there are personality problems, there is too much fighting for territory, and there are too many who feel free to comment on work without ever taking the risk of making it. It is absurd that out of the mess of last year, the only person to be suffering the consequences is Emma. However the Globe is taking steps to address the problems, you have an excellent CEO in Neil Constable, who has copped too much of the blame for last year’s imbroglio while doing all he could to avoid it, and you have the best theatre department in the country. The fact that the Globe has gone on making excellent work through summer and winter, with so much distraction, is testament to their excellence. Dear F and F Soul, you will have to be prepared for tough decisions, you will have to be strong and independent, but you will have some of the best around you.

Above and beyond all else, Dear F and F Soul, if you inhabit the same office which Mark, I and Emma were blessed to sit in, every day through the long summer, you will hear at 1 o’clock, and at 6.30, a bubbling hubbub of excited chatter, and standing to look out you will see a snaking queue of four or five hundred people, eager to charge through the doors, and jostle their way to the best positions in the yard. The quality of their excitement and anticipation, of their sheer appetite for a great afternoon or evening, of their big human hope - there is no price that can be put on that. It is one of the biggest privileges in the world of theatre to be able to join with it.

Relish, enjoy, make their hopes and yours real.

All the best,
Dominic Dromgoole

Casual headcanon that Bodhi has trouble falling asleep. It’s been this way since as long as he could remember and his time with the Empire didn’t help (nor did his time with the rebellion tbh). When he was younger, and unable to sleep, his uncle used to sit him down and point out all of the constellations. His voice a soft rumble and his eyes lighting up as he shared his passion for space with a young Bodhi.

What little rest he’s able to attain is plagued with nightmares. Thoughts of fire and brimstone, of chilling silence and assisted breathing, of slimy tentacles and hysterical sobs reach his dreams and he finds himself unable to stay asleep for long. Sometimes he avoids sleep altogether, hides out in the hangar and stares up at the sky.

It’s on nights like those, where the voices in his head are too loud, where he can feel whispers of tentacles and the sonic boom of an explosion ripping his world apart that Bodhi stares up at the sky. He sits in front of his ship, looking up at an unfamiliar array of stares and planets, thinking of family’s lost and gained. He’d be by himself some nights, looking up with nothing to keep him company but the stars and the silent bite of wind. Other nights the others would be there. A quiet Baze, sitting beside him with nothing more than a warm blanket and the soft timber of his voice as he asks Bodhi to name the stars above the two of them. A smiling Chirrut who’d regale him with tales of his and Baze’s adventures. A contemplative Jyn who’d hesitantly, almost shyly, speak up about her own experiences, an olive branch extended to him and only him. A talkative Cassian, who comes with a cup of warm milk in his hand, and a story on his lips, quiet chuckles exchanged in an otherwise silent night. Over time the visits from the others frequent until Bodhi’s no longer alone on these nights. He wakes up from another nightmare, hands shaking and memories shattered beneath warm tentacles and “so you were telling the truth.” He makes his way to his ship, hands still trembling breathing uneven and he stops at what he sees. Chirrut’s the one who notices him, and Bodhi swears the grin on the other man’s face could be a star all on it’s own.

“Took you long enough.” He says and Bodhi half sobs and half laughs as he takes the cup of warm milk from Cassian and accepts the blanket offered to him by Baze. Jyn punches his arm and all of them settle down in front of the ship.

Later, when Bodhi wakes up to find himself in the middle of Jyn and Cassian’s slumbering forms he can’t help the small grin that spreads across his face.

Bodhi Rook has trouble sleeping, some nights he can’t sleep at all, haunted by the screams of his family and the quiet whisper of “Bor gullet.” But on those nights, where he can’t make heads or tales of where and who he is, his family is there to help him, coax him out of the pit of despair and rageragerage until he can breathe again. And when Cassian wakes up with a silent cry and shuddered breathing, or when Jyn folds in on herself, fearful and angry all at once. Or when Chirrut can’t keep up the smiling facade any longer, his hands trembling and his breathing too harsh to be normal. Or when Baze shuts down, sucks in his emotions until nothing is there but an empty husk. Bodhi is there, sometimes a quiet reassuring presence, other times loud and boisterous if only to drown out the voices they no doubt hear. They help each other, a tightly bound disjointed family and Bodhi thanks the Force for every minute of it.

anonymous asked:

So, Jin and Yoongi's room is divided in two by a shelf right ? Yoongi has his side with his bed, and Jin had his. Then, why does Jin feel the need to close his computer when Yoongi goes to sleep ? It's not like he'll see the screen light, since they don't share the same space ?

WELP F U C K…WELP…

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Chapter 1: This Is Just the Start

Read the prologue


Song- “Where Is My Mind” by Maxence Cyrin

The First Day

July 2nd, 10:54 PM

“Alright, sweetheart. I’m going to need you to strip down to your bra and underwear for me.”

I give a sideways glance to the old, ragged lady standing in front of me holding a pen and a sheet of paper with a crude sketch of the human body on it. The room I’m standing in in New Hope Wellness Facility (a.k.a.- the cheesiest and most cringe worthy name for a mental health facility on the planet) is cold and desolate; only a grey cot with a paper liner covering it and a small sink crouched under a medicine cabinet share the space with the two of us. The crude florescent light beams down, bounces off the bare walls, and assaults my pupils, forcing me to squint until the skin of my eyelids block out enough light to focus on her face. I assume that I’m in the medical room of the unit, but the last thing I would ever want is to lay back on that cot and let someone probe and examine me. I’ll attempt suicide a thousand more times before I let that happen.

“This is just protocol for all of our new patients, Katrina. We have to strip you down to make sure you’re not hiding any drugs, alcohol, or weapons in your clothes or undergarments.”

“So, what’s with the sketch, then?” Sandpaper sits in between my vocal cords and I pull my ratty sweatshirt closer to my body, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed.

“Once I ensure you’re not trying to smuggle anything in here, I have to circle all of the places on your body that you’ve cut or harmed. None of this is going to be held against you, sweetheart. This is all just going in your file for the psychiatrist to look at before she begins your evaluation.”

“I still don’t want to take my clothes off.”

“I know, but you have to. I will make it quick, I promise. Fighting this is only going to make it worse.”

I sigh heavily and rip my clothes off at lightning speed, wanting nothing more than to get this over with as fast as possible. The lady makes me hold my arms out to the side as if I’m being crucified and begins to rotate me slowly in a circle, making notes of all the places the emergency room nurse covered the crimson-colored craters I’ve etched into my skin.

“Can I ask how you ended up in here?” Her voice sounds faint and far away while she concentrates on making sure she marks her paper correctly. I eye her as she makes big red circles on the backs of the thighs, on the calves, shins, tops of the feet, back of the heels, front of the thighs, hipbones… Huh, she’s using a red pen. How ironic.

I clear my throat. Vertigo begins to take over me and I reach out to grab the cot for support.

“I, um, I thought I was going to kill myself,” I squeak, carefully leaving out the detail of the voices telling me to do so. “I called 911 to get myself out of danger.”

The woman stops circling both sides of the ribs mid-mark and looks up at me through her silver eyelashes.

“Well, that’s a first.”

“Excuse me?”

She gently takes my wrists in her hands and moves my arms in front of my body, careful not to dig her fingernails into my torn-up flesh. I’m sure I look reminiscent of a zombie, and to say I feel like one would be the understatement of the year.

“Everyone who ends up in here usually wants to die. You’re the first patient I’ve checked in who landed here because they chose to fight for their life, not end it.” She shrugs indifferently before placing my arms down by my sides and moving my incredibly long, black hair behind my shoulder to look at my neck.

“But I didn’t ask to end up here, you know,” I breathe.

“I know, Katrina. No one does. But, at least you’re not mandated by a court to be here. You can sign yourself out anytime you’d like.” The woman places larges circles around the left arm and both sides of the neck on the diagram.

I shift my weight between my bare feet. “Are there people here who are court mandated?”

“I’m legally not allowed to say, but you’re number three of three patients on this unit as of tonight. It shouldn’t be that difficult to weasel some information out of the other kids here.”

What in the hell is that supposed to mean?

“Alright… You don’t have any illicit or recreational drugs on you, correct?”

I tightly wrap my arms around my almost-nude body and stare at the floor. “That’s correct.”

“No alcohol of any kind?”

I fucking wish.

“No.”

“Do you hold in your possession any over-the-counter medicine that when used incorrectly could bring about a state of intoxication?”

“No.”

“And you do understand that lying about obtaining any of these substances can and will result in a search and seizure of your property by police, an arrest warrant in your name, a fine of up to $250,000, and a potential stay of up to ten years in a federal prison?”

Jesus Christ, is this woman serious?

“Yes, I understand.”

“Perfect.”

She winks at me before capping her pen and placing the diagram inside a manila folder with my name scribbled on the front of it. I throw my sweatshirt back on my body, and as I’m working my leggings up my thighs, her voice catches my attention.

“Hey, Katrina?”

“Yeah?”

“Changing all of that gauze daily might be a nuisance since there’s so much of it, but it will help speed up the healing process of those cuts. And, between you and me, aloe and some Benadryl should keep with itching at bay.”

“Where do I get Benadryl?”

“The psychiatrist will have to mark it on your prescription card for the pharmacy to fill, but if you ask her for some when you talk to her tomorrow, it shouldn’t be an issue. I don’t see why she would object to giving you a small teaspoon every day while you’re here. Her name is Dr. Lawson, but everyone around her just calls her Jennifer.”

Jennifer… Her name rolls around in my head as I snap my waistband on my stomach. Tension that I didn’t even know I had releases itself from my shoulders and I smile at the woman.

“Thank you.” The volume of my voice shrinks down to match how small I feel after standing almost naked in front of someone for so long. I never want to take my clothes off for anyone ever again.

“Just get better, okay?”

I follow the woman out of the medical room and see her swipe her employee I.D. on a keypad to disappear behind a set of industrial double doors close by. I stand there, frozen, watching her through the small rectangular window until her she turns right behind a corner and her shadow fades from view. I know I wasn’t supposed to follow her, but now what do I do?

“Katrina?”

My mom’s voice fills the air and I make a 180 degree turn to find her still leaning against the nurses’ desk in the middle of the hallway, in exactly the same spot I left her before being ushered into the exam room. After calling her in the ambulance on the way to the hospital and leaving a voicemail explaining to her that I was feeling suicidal (again, actively choosing to leave out the part about the voices), she met me in the emergency room, crying and frantic. My mom, as much as she refuses to admit it, always has had a flair for the dramatic, and no matter how much I tried to convince her that I was safest there, that they had patched me up and found me a place to go for a couple of days until I was sure I wouldn’t do something like this to myself again, she wouldn’t sit still or calm down until the doctors spoke to her directly. She spent hours sobbing over the brochures of the facility the nurse gave her and didn’t let go of my hand the entire hour and fifteen-minute drive from the hospital to the facility, much to my dismay. Now, after signing insurance forms and receiving discharge information for when I leave in a couple of days, she loiters around and hovers over me, just like she’s done for the last nineteen years of my life.

“Mom? I thought you would have been gone by now. It’s going to be after midnight when you get back.”

“Katrina, I’m not going to leave without saying goodbye.”

“It’s not ‘goodbye,’ Mom. It’s 'see you later.’ You’ll have gone more time without seeing me while I was at school this year than you will these next couple of days.”

“I know, but this is different.”

“Why? Because you can’t convince yourself that I’m going to be okay this time? News flash, Mom: I haven’t been okay in a long time.” The bitterness in my voice slices through the air and I catch a couple of nurses sitting behind the desk wince at my words. Have they been here since I showed up? Why am I just now noticing them?

“You don’t think I don’t know that?” Mom’s voice raises an octave and she lifts herself off of the desk to face me directly. “Who was the one who dragged your ass to therapy every damn week for the last ten years? Who was the one who administered your medicine to you every single day until you refused to keep taking it? Who’s the one paying for you to be here right now?”

I look down at the white slip-on Vans covering my feet and inhale sharply, working like a madman to keep the anger suddenly building up inside my chest from exploding. I don’t want to hurt my mom again. Not here. Not now.

“I think you should go now, Mom.”

“I’m not leaving here without a hug, Katrina.”

“A hug my ass,” I mutter under my breath.

“Excuse me?” Mom reaches out for my chin and shifts my head upward until I’m meeting her gaze. Her touch sends bugs crawling across my skin and I shriek at the sensation, my voice high and shrill. I violently grab Mom’s wrist and throw her hand off of my body in an attempt to rid of the insects, but even when her touch leaves me, the bugs do not. They pitter patter, pitter patter their way over me, wedge their way under my clothes and into my shoes, and I begin a dance of desperation to try and shake them off.

“Oh god, Katrina. Not this again,” Mom snaps, unamused, rubbing her sore shoulder as if I took to her joint with a baseball bat.

“Get them off of me! Get them off, GET THEM OFF!” I begin stripping myself as a short nurse with blonde hair and red scrubs rounds the corner of the nurses’ desk and assumes a fighting stance in front of me.

“Katrina? Hey, Katrina, sweetheart, can you tell me what’s wrong? What’s on you that you need to get rid of?” Her voice is gentle, soft, and as I look into her baby blue eyes framed by mascara-coated eyelashes, I know she’s not here to hurt me. My adrenaline continues to pump through my body, though, and as I kick my shoes off and do a spin, my gaze finds my mother, who is staring at me unfazed.

“The bugs! Mom touched me without my permission and now the bugs ARE BACK. DON’T TOUCH ME UNLESS I SAY IT’S OKAY, BECAUSE IF YOU DO, THE BUGS WILL COME BACK!”

“Okay Katrina, I can get you some medicine to make the bugs go away, but you’ll need to keep your clothes on for me. Do you mind going into the rec room and sitting on the couch until I come back? Janet can sit with you while you wait if you would like.”

Blondie motions toward an overweight nurse with bad highlights standing behind the station and I nod, jumping and leaping down the hall before entering a door directly to the right of the nurses’ desk. I struggle to find the light switch and flop onto the brown leather couch. Janet follows close behind, pulling up a chair from a round table in the opposite corner and placing it next to me. I wiggle and writhe in my spot as the bugs begin nipping at my skin, leaving sores under my gauze pads. Janet watches me suffer silently while chewing on some dead skin on her bottom lip, and I can’t believe I’m here, my shit show acting as entertainment for the employees of this god forsaken mental facility.

“Janet, just so you know, I’m not crazy,” I grumble, clawing at the bare skin I have left, the little skin that was spared from my blades and from the medical work of the emergency room nurse.

“Katrina, no one here thinks you’re crazy. If we were worried about your psyche, you wouldn’t have been placed on this floor.”

“No, I mean I know that there aren’t actually bugs on my skin, but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t feel like there are.”

Janet scoots her chair a hair closer to me and cocks her head to the side. “Really? Do you know what causes he bugs to appear?”

I nod. “Unwarranted touch. I don’t let people touch me without my permission.” My words are blunt, harsh, and I focus on articulating each syllable to perfection in a lame attempt to take my mind off of the pain.

“And Mom didn’t listen to you?”

“She never listens to me when it comes to that stuff. She always wants a hug, always wants a kiss, always wants to hold my hand, and I get that I’m her firstborn and that she doesn’t know how to help me anymore, but I don’t know how ignoring everything I ask her to do or not to do makes any sense at all… Damn it, WHERE IS THAT MEDICINE?!”

As if on cue, Blondie rounds the corner with a handful of airtight baggies and a syringe filled with a clear, jelly-like substance.

“You’re going to shoot me up with that stuff?” I raise my eyebrows at her as she begins to unwrap all of the plastic.

“It’s just some good, old fashioned Benadryl, but it’s prepped for an IV rather than as an oral medication.”

I squirm around in my seat, unable to follow her train of thought.

“But, I don’t have an IV in.”

“Yet,” Blondie says as she holds up one of the baggies with a little shake. “I’m going to put the needle in and leave it overnight, just in case Jennifer wants any of your medicine administered intravenously tomorrow, okay? If she doesn’t, one of the day nurses will take it out first thing after your evaluation.”

“Ugh, okay. Can we just get this in my system so I can feel NORMAL AGAIN?”

“Yep, it’s all ready. I just need you to stay still for me so I put in correctly. Do you need Janet to hold your arm down?”

Janet looks at me nervously and I soften, mouthing the words “it’s okay” before scooting up to the edge of the couch cushion. She places a large hand on my forearm as Blondie pulls on some latex gloves and disinfects the inside of my elbow with an alcohol pad. I take a deep breath, secretly craving the sensation of a sharp object piercing my skin. My eyes close as I feel the tingle of the needle entering my vein, desperately trying to stop the twisted smile from creeping onto my face.

“Good, Katrina. That slid right in. Now, this Benadryl might make you feel loopy and tired, but as soon as I inject this, I’ll show you to your room and we can get your bed set up so you can sleep for the evening, okay?”

“Like that will happen,” I snort. “I’ve intentionally overdosed on hydrocodone so many times that my liver metabolizes medicine before it even absorbs in my system. You’re going to need to inject me with my body weight in Benadryl before it knocks me out.”

Damn it, Katrina, stop talking. Quit spitting out your woes to the first person that’s willing to listen. You’ll sound like a nut job, or worse, a charity case.

Blondie places the needle of the syringe into the small blue tube attached to my IV and presses down on it slowly. I watch, entranced, as the liquid transfers from the syringe and disappears under my ghastly, paper-like skin. The area where the IV is inserted begins to warm and the sensation of pins and needles consumes by body, but my brain remains alert and my eyes don’t tire. The bugs immediately begin to die and fall off of me onto the floor one by one until my feet are surrounded with exoskeletons. I exhale dramatically.

“How does that feel, Katrina?”

“Better. Normal.” I lick my lips nervously and look at Janet, then at Blondie. “Thank you for helping me. I’m sorry I panicked on you guys.”

Blondie caps the small blue tube and adheres it to my skin with clear medical tape before reaching her hands out to help me off the couch. I decline her offer and stand up on my own, careful not to step on any of the dead bugs.

“Katrina, that’s our job. It’s what were here for.” Janet smiles softly as the three of us pad out of the rec room and back into the hallway. I glance around for Mom, but no sign of her can be found anywhere. Maybe she finally got the hint and left.

Guilt washes over me now that I’m medicated and stable again. All she wanted was to say goodbye and I wouldn’t give that to her. What a piece of shit daughter I am.

“Okay, Katrina, ready to find your room?” Blondie reaches behind the nurses’ desk and grabs a lanyard heavy with metal keys. I shrug and grab my bags that have been sitting atop the surface of the desk since I arrived and follow suit behind her down the hall opposite to that of the rec room and medical room. She stops at the second door to the left and I glance around, taking note that only two of the doors down the hall have names written on the whiteboards plastered on the doorframe. The room directly next to mine has Stephanie scribbled in stark handwriting, and the room adjacent and across the hall to me has a name sprawled in cursive so swift that I have to squint to make out the name: Grayson.

God help me if there is a boy living on this floor with me for the next week. I will cut his balls off in his sleep if he dares to even get within arm’s length of me.

Blondie messes with the lock, and eventually with a huff, swings the heavy wooden door open. She flips the light switch to the left of the doorframe and I’m greeted with an underwhelming sight: two twin-sized mattresses with small wooden bedframes beds sit inches apart from each other on a white tiled floor. In front of the beds to my left is the bathroom, which consists of nothing more than a shoebox of a shower, a dingy toilet, and a single vanity with a large mirror positioned above it. Opposite of the bathroom door is a large shelf of cubbies mounted to the wall, each about two feet by two feet in size. The rest of the room is barren, the light blue walls screaming for some kind of decoration or artwork to be placed upon them. I feel my shoulders drop as I walk to place my bags on the bed closest to the door. I had hoped it would at least be better than prison. Maybe I was wrong.

“Alright, Katrina, here’s your home-sweet-home for the next five days.” Blondie’s voice startles me out of my thoughts and I pull the cuffs of my sweatshirt sleeves past my fingertips before plopping on the mattress next to my belongings.

“Just a couple of housekeeping rules for you to remember: The water temperature in all of the faucets are controlled by an outside heating source, so don’t expect your showers to be anything more than lukewarm at best–”

“I’m sorry?” I raise my eyebrows.

“We can’t have patients intentionally trying to burn themselves while they’re staying here, Katrina. It’s a safety precaution.”

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

“It’s also a safety precaution that we go through all of the belongings you brought with before you claim them, so don’t expect to find any shoelaces in your shoes or strings in your elastic waistbands. They’ve have all been removed. We’ve also taken your shaving razors, any hot tools you would use to style your hair with, and all makeup products. Those aren’t allowed during your treatment, but you’ll get everything back before you’re discharged. We didn’t get rid of anything. We’re just holding onto it.”

Woah, wait a second.

“I’m sorry… I understand taking the shaving razors and my flat iron, but why my makeup?”

Blondie sighs and leans against the door frame, crossing one leg over the other at her ankle. “We see more people with addiction than you’d be able to fathom, Katrina. When they’re detoxing and they’re desperate for any kind of fix, they’ll smash up eye shadow palettes and eyeliner and snort it just to feel something. We can’t take any chances.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t end up in here because of drugs, for God’s sake.” My jaw is clenched so tightly that my teeth grind together as I spit the words out.

“We can’t pick and choose who the rules apply to, sweetheart.”

I shove my hands in between my thighs and dig my fingernails into my flesh, using the pain as a distraction from the anger brewing in the pit of my stomach. They went through my shit without my permission?! They’re thieves. Thieves! They could have stolen anything they wanted and I would never know.

“Okay, so, we don’t have a daily cleaning service, which means you’re expected to keep your room neat for the duration of your treatment,” she continues. “We don’t room check, but if any staff member happens to wander down the hall and find that you’re unusually messy, there will be consequences. Also, you’re more than welcome to close your door at night, since the hallway lights stay on for twenty-four hours, but don’t expect it to lock. The lock strictly works from the outside, and the only way to operate it is with a key, which we keep secured.”

I grip my inner thighs harder until I begin to feel a warm liquid soak through the fabric of my leggings. The thick, familiar, dark red liquid that I’ve become best friends with.

“Finally, we have a lax schedule that we follow every day. Breakfast is at eight thirty every morning, and a day nurse will wake you up an hour before breakfast. You’re not expected to get up at seven thirty, but you can if you’d like. Lunch is at twelve thirty in the afternoon, dinner is at seven, and lights need to be out by eleven. That’s not to say you need to be asleep, but you need to be in bed laying down by them. As long as you’re not in therapy or undergoing any kind of evaluations, you’ll have free time throughout the day to do what you’d like as long as it complies with our rules, whether that be shower, sleep, draw, journal—”

“Journal?” I snap my head up and cut Blondie off. “I didn’t know we could write here. If I did, I would have brought my diaries.” For as long as I can remember, writing has been one of the few solaces from the hurricane that constantly churns inside my brain. When I write, the entire world around me fades until my voice is the only thing that can be heard. When I write, I am strong. When I write, I am fearless.

“We have some extra notebooks at the station. I’ll make a note for a day nurse to give you one tomorrow.”

I bite my lip and look back down at the floor, my fingertips grazing over the blood spilling out from my skin and soaking my leggings.

“Alright Katrina, I think that’s everything. Get unpacked and head to bed for me, okay? I’m sure you’re exhausted from the day you’ve had.”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Blondie pushes herself off of the doorframe and sits herself next to me on my bed. “I’ll be sitting with Janet all night if you need anything, okay?”

I shake my head up and down lazily.

“And Katrina?”

I crane my neck to look at her, some of my hair falling in my eyes in the process.

“We’ll get through this together. I promise.”

I swallow and tuck my hair behind my ear before catching her name on the I.D. clipped to her sleeve. Erica. Blondie’s name is Erica.

“Thanks, Erica.”

It feels like she really means it, too.

***

Song- “Last Smoke Before the Snowstorm” by Benjamin Francis Leftwich

July 2nd, 11:42 PM

“Knock, knock.”

A deep voice fills the air behind me as I’m unpacking my clothes from my duffle bag and causes me to leap out of my skin. I turn to find the source of the noise only to be greeted with the most intimidating creature I’ve ever laid my eyes on loitering in the doorway. My eyes graze over him from his mix-matched sock-covered feet, up his old, baggy sweatpants, across the black muscle tank hanging on his torso, to his tanned face and messy hair. His jaw is clenched and his dark eyed glare gives me a once over before blinking slowly and taking a couple of steps into my room. The closer he gets to me, the smaller I become; he hovers over a foot above me and he smells like sweat and the lingering musk of men’s body wash. He’s a stunning creature, one my eyes haven’t had the pleasure of staring at before now, and I’ve never been more afraid for my safety in my entire life.

“You haven’t written your name on your whiteboard, yet,” he continues while walking to the foot of my bed, eyeing all of the piles of clothes I’ve made while trying to get organized. “A new patient comes in and creates all this ruckus while I’m supposed to be sleeping, and as I peek my head out to see who it is, I don’t even get a name. Now I have to crawl out of bed, sneak across the hall to their room when the nurses aren’t looking, and introduce myself to them in all of my sleepy glory.” Sarcasm drips from his voice as he breaks out into a boyish grin, and I roll my eyes at the sentiment, praying that my adrenaline will stop pumping long enough to get a steady grip on my clothes. Please, God, don’t let him hurt me. Don’t let me die here today. I barely escaped death this morning. I don’t want to have to do it again tonight.

“You must be Grayson,” I choke, my mouth almost too dry to speak.

“How’d you guess?”

I give him a sideways glance as he crosses his arms over his chest, his biceps expanding under his skin with the movement. “I was told earlier tonight that there are only two other patients here, and you don’t look much like a 'Stephanie’ to me. It was just a matter of simple deduction.”

Grayson chuckles and the sound makes me jump again before leaning my back up against the wall for support. “You’ve deduced correctly. I’m Grayson, in the flesh and blood.”

“Mhm. That’s nice.”

“What, you’re not going to tell me your name?”

“Can I tell you after I finish unpacking?” I’m trying to stall giving him any personal information for as long as possible.

“Sure, I’ll even help you.”

No, PLEASE don’t do that–

Grayson’s voice softens and reaches for a pile of leggings. Watching his hands curl around my belongings shoots off sirens in my brain, but I stand frozen as he spins on his heels and finds the cubby I’ve places all my other pants in. He places them down gently in the space before smoothing the pile free of any wrinkles, and as he heads back toward the bed to pick up some more, he finds me staring helplessly at him.

“Hey, love, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Love. Hey, love. The term of endearment shakes me from my trance-like state and I begin to stutter while taking unsteady steps toward him.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I'm—I’m just trying to get used to this new environment, that’s all.”

“I get it. It’s not every day a stranger walks into your place of slumber and offers to put your laundry away for you, all before they learn your name.”

“It’s… it’s something like that, yeah,” I exhale.

Grayson pivots to place another pile into a cubby before facing me again. “To be fair, this is new for me, too. I’ve never offered to help a peculiar, but unusually beautiful girl, with her laundry before I know her name.”

My ears perk up at his words. “What did you just say?”

“You’re not deaf. I know you heard me.”

The room around me begins to spin as Grayson clears my bed completely. I want to help him, I don’t want him to do my dirty work alone, but I also want to scream and run and get as far away from this boy as possible. He’s going to hurt me, I know he is. Why am I not running?!

But, wait, when did the buzzing in my head stop?

The everlasting hurricane that thrashes about inside of me brings a lot of noise with it, and no matter how hard I’ve tried, for the last nineteen years I’ve never been able to shut it off. It accompanies me wherever I go, with whatever I do, and I’ve grown so accustomed to it that I’ve become skilled at ignoring it. Most of the time it’s an annoying buzz, but it times of turmoil, it can turn into a wailing rage that is deafening beyond belief. Suddenly, though, standing in front of Grayson, a boy I’ve known for maybe five whole minutes, there’s absolutely no noise in my head. Nothing. The only sound I can pick up is that of Grayson’s breathing, slow and even, in and out.

Oh my god, did Grayson just turn the noise off?

“All done. Will you tell me your name now?” Grayson’s voice pulls me back to reality, and just as I’m about to open my mouth to answer, Erica pops her head in my doorway.

“I knew I heard multiple voices coming from this room. Grayson, get back to bed and let Katrina get settled in. She doesn’t need harassing.”

Grayson moves his gaze from Erica to me and raises his eyebrows devilishly. “Katrina, it is?”

I nod quickly, lacing my fingers together but unable to break from his stare.

“So… beautiful…” he breathes. Beautiful? He’s lying. This is some kind of sick joke. There’s no way. Me, beautiful? Yeah, right.

“Alright, enough flirting.” Erica waves Grayson toward her and he obliges. “You can bother her in the morning. Right now, sleep will do both of you some wonders. Come on.”

Erica ushers Grayson out of my room, and before reaching behind her to close my door, Grayson turns around to shoot me quick wink. Suddenly, he’s completely disappeared from view, and as I plop down on my bed and throw my face into my pillow, I wonder what in the hell just happened.  Was there some kind of energetic connection or am I going completely mad? Why didn’t I run away? Why did I feel so compelled to stay close to him?

Suddenly, in Grayson’s absence, the buzzing in my brain clicks back on.

Great.


Go to chapter 2 (coming soon)

2

Request: “Can you do a Alex summers (xmen) imagine for me pleaseeee. Where they like eachother but they don’t want to admit it and so the team helps them which a rigged game of 7 minutes in heaven?”

Notes: I am absolutely so sorry that I cannot write Alex to save my life. I tried but it just seems…off? Idk I honestly apologize for this but…hope some part of you still enjoys it anyway…? Yikes…

Before you know it, Raven and Armando are pushing both you and Alex into a closet during a drunken party shared between all of you. They shut the door, flashes of satisfied grins being the last thing you see before there’s total darkness and the audible click of a lock.

“Guys, come on! This is so…awkward…” you pleaded as you smacked at the door with a flat palm. You hear an annoyed huff from behind you before a resounding click turns the light on in the small space you shared with Alex.

Closing your eyes for a moment, you take in a deep breath and slowly let it out before turning around. “Can you even believe them?” you asked, shaking your head incredulously as you gesture behind yourself. “It’s like we’re fourteen years old all over again.” A nervous chuckle escapes past your lips in a hot puff of air, Alex not even able to look you in the eyes. “Do you want me to, uh…melt us out of here…?”

Six minutes!

Alex seemed unsure for a few moments as you stood there, trying to read his facial expressions from what little he emoted. “M-maybe not…?”

Your eyes widen at the blond’s words, mouth parting slightly from how surprised you were by his comment. “Maybe…maybe not…? What, uh…what does that mean, ex-exactly…?”

The other simply stood there, clearly battling with himself on what to say next. Or what to do, as this particularly case may be, since the next thing that happened was Alex gingerly pressing a tender kiss to your lips, almost afraid to see what would happen.

He pulled back a few moments in, your face still visibly taken aback by what just happened. “I’m sorry, that was–”

“No! No…” you exclaimed quickly, wanting to assure Alex that whatever just happened, it definitely wasn’t anything that you didn’t enjoy on some level. “It was, uh…it was something…” you nodded briefly, clearing your throat as the other brought his hand up to awkwardly scratch at the back of his head from how uncomfortable the air in the room now felt.

“Something?”

“It was good. Nice.” you clarified, knowing you sounded like you were going to let him down easily despite the fact that you absolutely wanted to continue kissing him.

“Right…” Alex seemed to look dejected in response to your words, looking down at the carpeted floor and letting out a soft sigh that you’re positive you were only able to hear since it was just the two of you in such a small and quiet space.

Unable to figure out the right words, you manage to say ’screw it’ and lean in to capture his lips once again.

This time, it’s Alex that seems surprised. But only momentarily before his fingers trail up your arm and find themselves tangled in your hair as he hesitantly deepens the kiss. You let him, your own hands running up the man’s clothed chest before your arms drape over his broad shoulders.

It wasn’t long before things heated up slightly, neither of you seeming to want to push things further with a possible audience only a few feet away. Suddenly, the double doors to the closet open and you pull apart from one another. Hesitantly, you look back at the group of gawking faces, Raven’s own grin the widest of them all, softening only when she finally made a comment.

“Gotta love Seven Minutes in Heaven…”

Ficlet: Kit-Kats

Day 28 of the VLD Drabble Challenge - Roommate AU

Ship: Keith & Pidge (BOTP)

A/N: I have wanted to write Keith and Pidge as best friends/surrogate siblings for quite sometime. Making them grieving roommates at the garrison just seemed so natural. 


“Roommate” was a bit of a stretch when discussing the elusive Keith Kogane. Ever since Pidge joined the garrison mid-semester, she barely saw her bunkmate. He dragged himself into the room late, left early, and hid underneath his blanket the other times he happened to be in their shared space. The light of his tablet glowed in the makeshift tent, and Pidge guessed Keith just liked to keep to himself.

Good. She didn’t need him looking into what she was doing or looking too closely at her.

They existed, never talking, barely registering each other until she fell asleep while researching one night, drooling on her screen, glasses skewed. When she awoke, she started at her roommate’s intense glare.

Keith had emerged from his blanket tent, wearing a loose red T-shirt and pajama bottoms; his arms were crossed, face incensed.

“Why are you researching the Kerberos Mission? The garrison’s statement was pretty clear.”

Keep reading

Mage of Space

Understands space, or understands through space.

Mages are the active half of the Understanding class, with their counterparts being the more passive Seers. Mages have a powerful and innate knowledge of their aspect, but the way they interact with it gets a bit tricky. Mages are spared the negative effects of their aspect, but their use of the aspect to help teammates is often self-detrimental.

Space is the aspect of creation, distance, physical matter, and existence. Space is one of the two cardinal aspects - its partner being Time - which are necessary for any chance of a successful session. Space players are often sweet-tempered and physically separated from their teammates prior to (and sometimes even after) entering the Medium. They dream of taking on a new appearance or form, and luckily for them such wishes are almost always granted - though whether they still enjoy their new form after their transformation is another matter entirely.

The Mage of Space would have the ability to understand physical matter and creation. Their understanding of location would prevent them from getting lost - ever - and finding anything they needed would be a cakewalk. This includes, but is not limited to, Quest Beds, denizens’ lairs, and frog temples. Though their attack power is not especially potent, the Mage of Space would be unlikely to get caught in a fight unprepared due to the fact that they would know their enemies’ locations.

The role of a Mage of Space in a typical Sburb session is an active one, and the same role shared by all Space players; lighting the Forge and breeding the Genesis Frog.

Prior to God-tiering they would likely be a well-rounded scholar. Expect them to be very knowledgable in artistic techniques, or a self-taught master of arts and crafts. They would have a good sense of weight, distance, and size, as well as the physical properties of different materials. Their favourite subjects would be chemistry and physics, though they’d likely enjoy geography as well.

Ascension is almost always difficult, and that holds true for the Mage of Space. They could do their job just fine without becoming a God, so they might opt out of Ascension due to fear or an inability to accept their own death. Should they decide to go through with it though, their understanding of distance and matter would allow them to find their Quest Bed in a few moments, easily.

Post God-tiering, their knowledge of Space would increase along with their power. Any information about physical existence that had previously been hidden from them would be uncovered. All Mages lose parts of themselves due to their class, so if it’s possible to put it off, now’s the time to do it. Loss can’t be prevented entirely, but post-ascension they will gain more as they lose less, so God-tier is really the way to go.

The inversion of a Mage of Space is an Heir of Time: one who passively manipulates or becomes decay, inevitability, and destiny.

The land of a Mage of Space is LO(x)AF, or the Land of (x) and Frogs. The second word of a Space player’s land is inevitably ‘Frogs,’ while the first word ('x’) is something completely unique to the individual. 

Nearly nothing is known about the strife decks of Mages, but Space players tend to use large, powerful items that cannot be mistaken for anything but a weapon. Riflekind, chainsawkind, pistolkind, axekind, or flamethrowerkind might be suitable.

Their greatest strength is their intellect and knowledge, but their greatest weakness comes from losing so much of themselves due to their class.

The special power of a Mage of Space is Hyper Tracking. Intense knowledge of locations and physical matter means the Mage of Space could find anything, or anyone that they needed to. You can run, but you can’t hide!

Look, I don’t even know, okay. It kinda started with this ask. But then it spiraled with @armsbendback ‘s suggestion. And now it’s strangely part fluffy, part grumpy, part doggy-style, and part birthday. 

Masterlist 

I think it could be funny if he was trying to do nice things for his SO all day, like buying what he thinks are her favorite flowers but he gets it wrong, attempting to bake a cake and ruining it and finally conceding that the one think he can do is fuck her right and he still messes up? Maybe it’s her birthday idk. This is probably way too cutesy for Nevada but I think he does have that side.


You were utterly exhausted, barely able to drag your feet home from the subway. Having to work a twelve hour shift on your birthday was bad enough, but it seemed as if all of your patients had conspired today to be as awful as possible. Your scrubs were covered in spit, and blood, and various other bodily fluids that you would rather not think about at the moment. And all you wanted was a shower; a nice, hot, scalding shower to wash the stench of sick humans off you.

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The Pajama Fic: Part 1

Despite having been here for several days now, the jet lag left over from your trip from London to LA was still getting to you. Everyone else seemed to be getting used to the time difference but you still stayed awake the longest and slept in the latest. You were delighted to be in LA though; Sony had invited you and a bunch of other successful youtubers to film at a professional studio in the area. You had two weeks to creates projects together with their newest cameras and 3 days in you were already having the time of your life! The place you were staying was amazing too. Sony had put you up on the outskirts of Beverly Hills, sparing no expense at all. Everyone had a bedroom and small area of the house but in the centre was a shared patio area where you all spent most of your free time. There was a small pool and a small fire pit that you all sat round at night.

It was the morning of the fourth day and you were still laid asleep in your room that was attached to the shared space by enormous french windows, across which you had drawn the light, gauzy white curtains. The bed was luxuriously comfy, and ridiculously big, which did not help your sleeping-late dilemma. But there you were curled around the fluffiest of duvets, one arm stretched over the pillow to your right on the empty side of the bed as if it was someone you were incredibly fond of. A warm breeze hit your face making you stir slightly but not actually managing to wake you. At the far side of the room the french windows had been pushed slightly open, causing the light curtains to drift in the breeze. Tentatively Dan Howell stepped slightly through the door to see if you were still asleep. Dan was one of the youtubers that had also been invited by Sony on the trip. Although he had more followers than you, you had collabed once or twice and found that you got on incredibly well, along with Phil. Since then you had hung out often since you both lived in London and didn’t mind just sitting watching stuff at each others houses without really needing to make an effort to entertain each other. It was a strong friendship that you were glad you had formed because it suited both of you and made this trip even more fun.

However if you had seen how Dan looked now, your feelings for him would have doubled. He stood at the doorway, leaning inadvertently on the doorframe into the room. His hair was unkempt and slightly curly, suggesting he to had just woken up and not taken time to straighten it. His eyes were slightly dewy from disturbed sleep and he was rubbing the back of his neck, showing how he felt a little awkward coming to wake you. He wore loose pajama bottoms and an old, baggy t-shirt that showed off a bit too much collarbone for people to handle normally. In short he looked cute and hot and kind and dreamy and normal all at the same time. Unfortunately you didn’t see any of the this because you were still asleep and had snuggled your face into the billowy covers.

Dan smiled a dimpled, shy smile at seeing you excessively enveloped in your bed still and decided that he better wake you up as it was already afternoon. He took a few more steps into the room, approaching the empty side of the bed where your arm lay outstretched, reaching around the pillow as if searching for comfort. Still smiling he sat lightly on the side of the bed, noticing how you didn’t even stir because you were so fast asleep. He gingerly reached an arm out to shake you on the shoulder but hesitated mid air, not really wanting to wake you. Instead his hand dropped to the duvet, next to where yours lay outstretched, fingers gently curled around the soft white material. Moving incredibly slowly, as if terrified of his own actions, Dan slightly traced the shape of one of your fingers as if admiring the mere existence of your hand. The touch was delicate, but incredibly intimate and would have made you shudder - if you had been awake. Dan’s smile had turned into something far more serious and intense and he took a deep, steadying breath to steel himself. This time he not only traced the finger with his fingertips but the entire hand, admiring each knuckle and tendon and the softness of your skin. Ever so slowly he begins to lace his fingers between yours, appreciating how easily they fit together. The smile had begun to return to his face, his sleep filled eyes lighting up slightly as he held your hand. Singularly delighted at his progress he lifted his eyes to your sleeping face and cherished the way you slept so peacefully. His smile grew and his breath because more shallow as he looked back down to your intertwined hands. You see, although you never considered it a possibility, Dan had slowly but steadily developed feelings for you as your friendship grew. Right now his heart was pounding and he couldn’t ignore the ache in his chest that suggested this is exactly where he wanted to be. He really didn’t want to wake you. To be honest he didn’t want to be awake himself as he was still suffering from the jet lag as he naturally stayed up to unreasonable hours as well. But everyone else had gone into town to buy groceries for that evening and he wanted make sure that you were ready when the came back to avoid their banter more than anything. But he couldn’t help himself when he saw you lying there. He wanted so desperately to be with you, but couldn’t fathom a way to express it. However he realised now that this was a bit creepy and maybe he shouldn’t have done it. Making the decision to leave and pretend nothing happened he looked back up to your face, instead he saw your eyes flicker open and groggily take in the scene around you. Although his touch was incredibly tender and loving it had woken you and now you focused down at your hand and made the connection with the touch and Dan’s presence. Dan’s stomach dropped and he quickly let go, turning from you and standing up, the blood rising furiously in his cheeks. The sudden movement wake you completely and your eyes widen and you begin to sit up.

“Dan.” You say in a confused and slightly startled tone. Did that really just happen?

“..I’m so sorry.” He stutters out, refusing to make eye contact with you and getting closer and closer to the door. “I didn’t mean…I just…oh my god I’m really….”

“Dan” you say again, a little softer this time, registering the panic and embarrassment that was overcoming him. “Dan it’s okay…”. But he continued to stutter his apologies and ruffle his hair in embarrassment. You decide to swing your legs out of bed and sit on the side, looking up at him backing away. He glances at you and his blush intensifies as you both realise you’re only wearing small pajama shorts and a small white tank top as it is hot at night. Dan can’t help but think that you look incredibly beautiful with slightly messy hair falling on your pretty neck and chest and his heart rate increases again.

“I think I should go, it was wrong of me to come in here when you were asleep I was actually coming to wake you up but then…” his fast speech trailed off, and he took another awkward shuffle toward the door. You stood up and quickly closed the space between the both of you and grabbed his hand before he could completely walk out. It stopped him in his tracks and he turned back round to you, a mixture of shame and embarrassment still in his eyes. You only stood there for a moment but it was long enough for you to form your thoughts. Dan Howell was holding my hand. Dan Howell is stood in my room blushing. Dan Howell is comfortable around me with hobbit hair and pajamas. Dan Howell likes me more than a friend.

“Dan it’s okay.” you say sincerely. And you mean it. It is okay, because now that you look at him that way there is no one you would like to be closer to than Dan. Because the idea that Dan wants to hold your hand is making your heart pound in your chest. Because you’re now finding feelings for Dan that you didn’t realise were there, or maybe you knew all along, you’re not sure any more. But you are sure of one thing; you don’t want him to leave.

when your scary but stupidly attractive boss’s less scary but also attractive partner starts to work with them ;) @feynites

In His Dreams

A.N.: The last Drabble Games request on the list! This is for @wesawbears, who requested FeyRhys from ACOMAF and 20: Cuddling during a storm. It’s sort of set post-ACOMAF, with the fluff and angst flavors as requested :) I’ve never written for this fandom before, and I’m not really sure what this particular fic is, so please be nice to me. I hope you enjoy it, though!

Summary: Rhysand is having a hard time dealing with Feyre’s absence, so she comforts him with a dream.

Word Count: 1,153

Warnings: Some canon-dubious magic use, rainstorm, angst, and cuddling


Rhys landed on the roof, rain sluicing down his wings and crawling down his spine beneath his fighting leathers. The patrol flight he’d just completed was unnecessary and he knew it, but he found himself restless in the late hours of the night since he had returned to Velaris. Hybern’s recent attack on the city he had given so much to protect shook him to his core—even more so because he knew that it was his own Cauldron-cursed hopes that paved the way for the mad king’s attack—and though the protection spells were back up and reinforced thanks to Amren and Mor, he had to see to its protection itself. Such instincts were so deeply a part of him that they were hard to resist, even when he wanted to.

Reflexively, he brushed a mental hand across the mating bond, just to check that it was still there. It was always there, but that did not lessen his relief to feel it still whole, with Feyre’s warmth on the other side.

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anonymous asked:

Could I please get Shimada bros, McCree and Lucio taking their s/o through a haunted house and Te s/o being genuinely scared. Thank you! Love your stuff btw ^^

got it!

Genji: Covers their ears with his hands, because he heard that the scary sounds are worse than the sights, and leads them through the haunted house as they cover their eyes. He gets scared once and almost moves his hand to grab his sword, but once they’re out his s/o clings to him and he takes them home.

Hanzo: Stands with his arm around them the entire time they go through the haunted house, if something comes close to them to scare them he moves in front of them. Once they’re out and home he makes them tea and calms them down. They’re not doing that again.

Lúcio: Puts headphones over his s/o’s head with their favorite music so they don’t have to hear the scary sounds and walks them through, holds their hand really tight so they know he’s still with them. He asks them how it was once they’re out, and if they don’t want to do it again they never will, he’s not the biggest fan of them anyway.

McCree: He’s terrified. He’s trying to be strong for his s/o but he’s scared shitless. At one point he even ducks behind his s/o. They end up laughing about it several days later but when they go home that night they sleep with several lights on in their shared living space.

Casting a Circle (complex)

Ingredients

· Chord/sand/salt/chalk/tape

· Sheet (if using sand/salt)

· Besom (ritual broom)

· Incense/Smudging

· Holy water/salt

· Athame/wand

· Lighter

· 4 candles

Directions

· Physically clean up your space by vacuuming, sweeping, mopping, whatever you have to do to make it physically clean.

· Lightly sweep your besom to remove bad energies from your sacred space, and feel the positive energy flow down from your hands and body into the besom, having the energy strike the floor through the straw like igniting a match, cleansing all negative energy from the space (optional step).

· Make sure you have everything for your future ritual inside your circle space. Go outside of your circle space and make a physical representation of the circle with a chord/sand/salt/chalk/tape. Make sure this is over a sheet or outside if you are using sand/salt. DO NOT MAKE A FULL CIRCLE UNTIL YOU ARE INSIDE!

· Close the physical circle.

· Call the guardians of the watchtowers:

“Guardians of the watchtowers, spirits of the North, South, East, and West, hear me now and lend me your power to guard this holy circle from all things dark, negative, or evil. Come into my temple and be at one with me; so that the Gods and Goddesses can come here in peace to share my sacred space.

(Light South candle)Guardian of the South, Lend me your love/compassion/sexuality*,

(Light North candle) Guardian of the North, lend me your spirituality/scholarship/health*,

(Light West candle) Guardian of the West, lend me your judgement/grounding/balance*,

(Light East candle) And Guardian of the East, lend me your divination/communication/wisdom*.

So mote it be”

(*whichever applies to your following spell)

· Burn Incense and Chant:

“Bless, cleanse, consecrate, and purify this temple in the name of the almighty deities; that nothing dark, negative, or evil shall be made a part of it. Let nothing of this nature trespass within these temple walls. I caste it out, for it is not needed here. In the name of the almighty deities, so be it.”

· Sprinkle holy water/salt mix (Clockwise) and chant:

“Bless, cleanse, consecrate, and purify this temple; that it be made pure and holy for the Gods and Goddesses themselves. And nothing dark, negative, or evil shall be a part of it. In the name of the almighty deities, so be it.”

· Point wand/athame to the sky and imagine pure white light from all other realms, coming into the athame/wand and into the body, until it has engulfed the body and the whole circle in a white globe.

· Call to your deities:

“Lords and Ladies, (insert your respective gods and goddesses), I praise your holy name. My temple now has been made ready, holy and pure, that nothing dark, negative, or evil shall trespass herein. This is only a temple for you – for me to visit you and be at one with you. Please lend me your audience and bless me with your presence. Blessed be.”

· Begin your ritual, do not step outside until it is complete. Perform a ‘cutting’ if necessary. To ‘cut’ point your wand/athame making a small ‘cut’ line to make a door out of the circle, left to right. Do it the same way when coming back in, right to left on the same line.

Guided by Lady Leeanna with prior knowledge mixed in. Enjoy!

~H

Solas and Jaques

Fadewalking:

 There was a brief, barely noticeable narrowing of his eyes, as he took slight offense to the question being asked; but he brushed it off.“Consider, da’len, that without dark, there would be no such property as light. You need the negative to see the positive. And darkness in and of itself it not necessarily the opposite of light so much as it one side of the same coin. Light does not compete with darkness, it shares time and space. Darkness exists where light cannot. It is more about reach than speed. So far as The Dread Wolf is concerned… I would not give stories the weight of history,” 

Nugkisses:

Jaques walked slow, and a little tired, using his staff as a walking stick. The boy smiled kindly and with a little apology on his features. “I was joking Solas, I know how light works. Sera didn’t believe me when i told her her you were somewhat of a book. A very studious person by nature. I knew you would answer in a way that teaches, or makes one think. She’s owes me fifty Royals and fresh cake.Thank you for that by the way.”

Sera  lingered one floor up with Dorian, both watching. She paid Dorian the 5 Royals with a quiet hiss of ‘Piss!” before meandering away. Jaques on the other hand sighed to catch his breath, and moved to the mural at a slow walk. Like his joints ached slow. He had played a little too hard earlier when the Inquisitor had taken him out dragon hunting. It had been worth every second to lay gasping in dragons blood for thirty minutes after, feeling alive despite half choking on clean air. Nothing like killing something else to make one feel alive!

“Did you…paint all of these? Or were they here when we arrived?….I still haven’t seen all of the castle yet.”

@fadewalking @fade-walking

nugkisses  asked:

from Jaques- A young elf mage with two toned skin approached, a question lingering on his mind. "Solas, If there's nothing faster than light, how did the dark get there first? Did the Dread Wolf put it there?"

There was a brief, barely noticeable narrowing of his eyes, as he took slight offense to the question being asked; but he brushed it off.

“Consider, da’len, that without dark, there would be no such property as light. You need the negative to see the positive. And darkness in and of itself it not necessarily the opposite of light so much as it one side of the same coin. Light does not compete with darkness, it shares time and space. Darkness exists where light cannot. It is more about reach than speed. So far as The Dread Wolf is concerned… I would not give stories the weight of history,” 

@teddyryker sent  🐾  for a starter at Fox Tower.

There were very few positive things that Alex associated with sharing a room, least of all the fact that he was an incurably light sleeper and rarely had a restful night unless he was lucky. The dark bags under his eyes were ever-present as he sat in a shared living space, everything dark save for the glowing light of a laptop screen before his eyes. On this particular evening, however, he had no one but himself to blame for his sleeplessness. His eyes burned as he continued to stare into the brightness, but he merely rubbed at his eyelids impatiently, gazing at the display before him with fixed intensity.

He had to hand it to his father. At the very least, he was more skilled at being a nosy, invasive bastard than anyone else he’d ever met. The bold lettering that signified a new email seemed to be staring back at him, only instead of it being on his personal account like usual, it was sent to the one associated with Palmetto State. He chewed on the inside of his cheek absentmindedly, reading the light grey colors that gave a preview into what the email contained. He followed the words until they cut off repeatedly, but didn’t open it. He never did. 

It was just as he was hovering over the link, intending to delete the offending message, when the room was suddenly and completely illuminated. He looked up, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the new level of light. “Oh,” he murmured, rubbing his eyes. “What are you doing up?” he asked in a Scandinavian accent that was usually well-masked, but came across more strongly with tiredness. He turned back to stare at the email some more, before he shut the damn computer entirely and shoved it aside. “Can’t fucking sleep,” he complained, leaning further back on the sofa and crossing his arms, which made his scarred skin stretch and gleam unpleasantly in the new light.

4

I didn’t think it would be possible to love my dorm more this year, but here I am.

The End

The sky is a plum and silver canvas stretching overhead by the time Dean guides the Impala off the dirt road and into the field, light popping noises echoing under Sam’s feet from the rocks kicked up by the pull of the tires. Silence has settled into their skin over the last few hours of their drive, the unspoken words between them dissipating like the smoke after hastily lit fireworks.

There’s been so much tension, so many problems and resolutions and lies and confessions that have transgressed between Sam and his brother that it’s nice to just sit. Sit and breathe. Feel the leather under his fingertips as Sam finds the small tear by his right thigh, feel the stuffing underneath, coarse yet soft against his skin, a mark made when he was sixteen and Dean was unattainable and Dad was asleep in the backseat, a mark of stifled rebellion against this turmoil of emotion hot in his chest of want and need and can’t have. So many small reminders of him in this car, him and Dean, the legos rattling with the heat because it is cool for an August night, the burn mark from the one time Dad caught Dean smoking and he dropped the cigarette in surprise and created an ashy reminder in the carpet of the driver’s footwell.

Countless lives they have saved over the decades, hundreds, millions, the entire goddamn planet. And none of them would know their name. But they have this. They have their car, Dean’s grip on the vinyl wheel, Sam’s shoulder tucked against the door. And on nights like this, Sam knows it’s enough.

Sam barely notices when the car pulls to a stop, Dean easing on the brakes so softly that the Impala practically glides into the center of field before he puts her in park. The ticking of the engine is like a lullaby, smoothing down the hairs on Sam’s neck, small knocks against his heart when he sees his brother turn to look at him from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t want to be the first to breathe.

“I’ll get the beers,” Dean says, rough and low and scattering goosebumps up Sam’s arms. All he can do is nod back and wait for Dean to step out and creak the door shut again before closing his eyes. He follows moments later, always follows his big brother, and they meet at the front of the car.

Dean’s head is tilted back, his lips parted ever so slightly in awe at the stretch of the Milky Way across the blue-black sky that lies above, and it takes a few seconds for Sam to tear his eyes away from the look of complete abandon that is scribing itself into his brother’s features to look up himself. 

It sweeps the air out of his lungs, folds them in on themselves and crushes his ribs with the immensity of it all until he’s reaching back to steady himself on the hood of the car. Stars shining, unhindered by city lights or smog, reaching towards them with white and pale blue and dusty red fingers, constellations shimmering with faintly drawn lines between them, a spider’s web of beauty arching across their vision. 

Sam’s moving without really thinking, the warmth of the metal beneath him warming his thighs as he lets himself slide down against the windshield. Dean is just there, steady and reliable and constant, heating Sam’s entire left side, handing him an opened beer, a cold press of sweating glass on the inside curve of his palm. They’re breathing in time and the long grass rustles around them with the music of the night.

It’s like there is eternity hanging between them and infinity spreading above them. It’s suffocating, lighting Sam’s nerves on fire while dousing him in chills, an enormous pressure like an invisible hand pushing down on his chest to flatten him to his car, try to mold his very muscles along the sleek black frame below. Then Dean speaks and Sam can suck in air, oxygen seeping into him once more at the rumble of his brother’s voice.

“Never thought it’d end like this.”

Sam has to lift his bottle and take a swig before allowing his words to climb out of his throat.

“How’d you think it’d end?”

It’s quiet again, for a long time. Sam doesn’t mind. He knows Dean, thinks that he knows him better than he knows himself sometimes. This side of his brother, the side that only Sam has ever seen, it doesn’t come out often. It’s rare, just like these starry nights in the middle of nowhere with nothing but their car beneath them. So Sam breathes and Dean breathes and Sam has his peace.

“Bloody. Definitely not this. Never thought we’d have any semblance of -” Dean cuts himself off and Sam turns his head to watch Dean clench and unclench his jaw a few times, biting on the words he’s barely forcing out. The moonlight brushes the strong line of his profile, straight nose and full lips in a tight purse, the wrinkle between drawn eyebrows.

“Yeah. Me neither,” Sam says back, because he gets it. He does. And Dean seems grateful for that, his shoulders untensing as he sinks a little further into Sam’s side, the scent of his aftershave tickling Sam’s nose.

The blanket of stars soars above them and Sam feels small in the dark spaces between the twinkling lights. They don’t share any more words, just nudges and lifted arms to trace the arc of satellites or a hand gripping the other’s wrist when a shooting star flares bright and finite, its tail searing a line into their eyes that doesn’t fade for minutes at a time. Sam knows that the seconds are whispering by, can feel it in the ache of his bones and the grey hairs starting to appear on the scruff on his jaw, and he just finds it in himself to be thankful. That through it all, he’s had his own constant, his own star to follow, and it’s pressed against his shoulder on the hood of their car.

“What do you think is up there? For… for us?” Sam asks finally, his throat catching and rasping from the hours of not talking. He watches Dean tilt his head a little to the side, contemplating with a curious, small smile at the edge of his lips. When he meets Sam’s stare, he grins, all white teeth and crinkling skin at the corners of his eyes. It’s like a flower of heat blooming in Sam’s stomach, spreading out like flames to every fiber of his being.

“We’ll figure it out, Sammy. Just like we always do.”